If Snitches Were Witches
by Scribe Teradia
Summary: Pansy bets that Oliver Wood is straight and she can prove it. Five months into her six-month deadline, she'll do just about anything to win... including kidnapping. Rated for copious amounts of smut.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own J.K. Rowling's universe, I just like to have lots of fun with her characters. Because I can.

**Author's Note:** I decided there was an appalling lack of fiction with Oliver that wasn't slash, and it needed fixing, so I tossed a few ideas around, and SeraphimeRising and bookaddict19 threw crack at me until I came up with this. It took me the whole weekend to write, mostly because writing from home means I have a whole bunch of distractions I don't have when I'm at work (plus it got a little too hot even for me in places), but I got it finished in time for bookaddict19 to beta it for me (she was even nice enough to put the draft into doc format while I was napping). Also, I fail at writing accents, so I didn't even make an attempt at Wood's, the fairly thick Scottish brogue is assumed. Love it? Hate it? Review and tell me why!!

**If Snitches Were Witches**  
by Scribe Teradia

Pansy had a problem.

Her problem was Oliver Wood, Keeper for Puddlemere United and Witch Weekly's Sexiest Wizard of the Quidditch World five years running. Tall, lean, ruggedly handsome with dark brown hair and eyes the color of melted chocolate, not to mention a smile that had witches (and wizards) of all ages fawning all over him at every opportunity. And then there was the Scottish brogue that was a thousand times better than any sort of aphrodisiac, wizarding or otherwise. Fully half of the wizarding community swore that Wood had a preference for wizards, but the other half (which included Pansy) refused to believe such nonsense, because frankly he was just too hot to play for the other team, so to speak.

But back to the problem. She never should have made that bet with Daphne's cousin Edgar, and wouldn't have if she hadn't had so bloody much to drink. Draco was forever warning her that she needed to learn to keep her mouth shut after the third drink, and while she hated to admit that he was right (and never would, out loud), she wouldn't have bet Edgar half a month's pay that Wood was straight and she could prove it if she hadn't been three sheets to the wind. Why did they always seem to wind up discussing unattainable men when they got drunk together?

The six-month deadline he'd given her the next morning once they were both sober had seemed quite generous at the time. She rarely needed longer than a few weeks to work her way into a wizard's bed, once she put her mind to it, had even joked about it with Edgar that morning, since she'd woken up next to _him_ even though she most definitely wasn't his type. Five months later, she'd gotten absolutely nowhere, and was beginning to panic. It wasn't that she couldn't spare the money, she wouldn't have bet it if it wasn't expendable, but her pride was at stake! Never before had Pansy encountered a wizard who was so completely oblivious to her efforts, even the gay ones at least _noticed_ her (she'd bedded half a dozen, over the years, just to prove that she could).

It wasn't as though she hadn't tried, either. She'd done her homework, read up on Wood and the rest of the team, done so much research on the history of Quidditch and various facts about the sport she felt she'd be quoting statistics for another six months. And she didn't even _like_ Quidditch! Granted, she'd been in the stands cheering for Slytherin during matches at school, but that was more out of loyalty for the House and support for Draco personally than for any love of the sport. She had a vague recollection of the rivalry between Wood and Flint, but she'd never really paid that any attention.

Puddlemere United was playing in the semifinals for the British Cup. If they won, they'd go on to the finals in two weeks, against whichever other team won its match, otherwise this would be their last game until the fall. So far, they were winning, thanks to Wood and the Chasers, but it was close enough that the game could still go either way depending on who caught the snitch. Pansy was hoping for a Puddlemere victory, because it would give her one more opportunity to snare Wood if her latest plan failed, though she was really hoping to finally succeed in at least catching the man's eye. Her luck had been dismal, these last five months, partly because the fans were really quite scary when they turned into a mob (which they often did, around Wood, who usually started blushing and stammering and looking uncomfortable when confronted with the crowd), and partly because, at the end of the day, Oliver Wood lived for Quidditch, and Quidditch alone. It was beyond frustrating.

Every game, she'd had a plan, a strategy, carefully thought out beforehand and designed solely for the purpose of catching Wood's eye. For five months, she'd watched all that careful planning go right out the window when put into practice, but she was fairly confident about today's agenda. She'd charmed one of the reporters into letting her into the press box, having witnessed firsthand that the press was allowed access to the players before anyone else. After months of observing Wood cracking under pressure, she knew he'd be less than eager to face both the press and the fans, and was liable to jump at the first opportunity to make his escape. All she had to do was get to him first.

The reporter was keeping up a running commentary of the game that Pansy was only half-listening to, mostly because she'd already forgotten the poor fellow's name. Not much to look at, she'd been quite surprised to hear the rather gorgeous Irish tenor voice that came from his mouth when he spoke to her, and if she hadn't been so completely focused on Wood she probably would have paid more attention when he was telling her who he was. If for no other reason than to add him to her list, because for all that he was fairly plain and ordinary-looking, that voice made her go weak in the knees, and she certainly didn't mind listening to it as he remarked on the game.

A flurry of activity caught her eye, and she looked up, shading her eyes against the lights of the stadium to peer into the darkening sky at the Seekers, who were racing for the Snitch. She thought the Puddlemere Seeker was ahead by a few inches, and this was confirmed a moment later by the Irishman at her side. When he finally caught the thing, she let out a sigh of relief, though everyone else was cheering (or groaning, depending on which team they'd been rooting for). As the team made its victory lap, she followed the reporters out of the press box and into the corridors beneath the stadium where they could accost the players just outside of their locker rooms. The thought of Wood in the locker room (particularly in the shower) sent a shiver through her, and she wondered who she'd have to bribe to get in there, should her plans go awry after this encounter.

Edgar's voice flitted through her head, his argument that Wood was leaning toward wizards, "Any sport where men play with balls is bound to have its share of poufs, luv." She frowned briefly and shook her head, shoving the memory back where it belonged in a corner of her mind, the better to focus on the present. It was a good fifteen minutes before the players began to emerge, and while she feigned interest for the sake of appearances she knew Wood wouldn't be among them. Since he preferred to avoid the press, and the fans, and crowds in general, he tried to be the last one out, and usually succeeded, though it didn't spare him their attention. More people trickled out of locker rooms on both sides, and Pansy was forced to count heads to make sure she hadn't missed him. Twelve, thirteen, everyone but Wood, and then there he was, practically on cue.

"Oliver!" someone shouted. Others took up the chant, clamoring for him to look at them, smile at them, comment on today's game, please, Mr. Wood? Pansy waited until he got that panicky look on his face before slipping through the crowd and right up beside him. "Want a quick way out of here?" she asked, touching his arm.

His head turned, and he glanced at her without really seeing, which frustrated her further. Then he blinked and _looked_ at her, and she felt her breath catch just from the weight of his gaze. She'd never gotten this close to him before, and there was an intensity to the man that just wasn't apparent from a distance. No wonder he was so bloody popular. "I'm sorry, what?" he asked, the sound of his voice wiping away all the irritation and frustration of the past five months.

"Quick way out?" she repeated, mildly annoyed with herself for the breathy sound of her voice, it made her come across like a twit. "I know crowds aren't your thing," she added, regaining control of herself. "I can get you out of here, but you'll owe me."

"Deal," he replied, and Pansy suppressed a smirk. She grasped his arm and hauled him out of the crowd, swatting aside reporters and fans alike as she got them both clear.

Leading the way at a quick walk down a maintenance hallway, she rounded a corner and pressed something into his hand. "Just hang on," she warned, just before she activated the quasi-legal custom portkey she'd commissioned specifically for this purpose.

They landed in an inelegant heap on a carpet-covered floor, and Pansy spent a moment enjoying the way he felt beneath her before stirring, lifting her head to look down at him. Merlin, but he was so gorgeous he was practically edible, lying there like that looking rather shell-shocked. She braced her hands on the floor and shifted her hips ever so slightly against his, and was gratified to feel a definite hardening in his trousers.

"M-miss?" Oliver stammered, brown eyes wide with confusion. "Do you mind letting me up?" His accent sent a shiver down her spine, and Pansy smiled down at him.

"Actually," she replied, resting one hand in the center of his chest and smirking at his rapid heartbeat, "I rather do. After all, you _do_ owe me."

"Wh-what?" He shook his head, taking hold of her shoulders and gently lifting her so that he could slide out from beneath her. "I'm sorry, I can't."

"I beg to differ," she countered, sitting up and running a hand up his leg to the now-visible bulge in his trousers. "This would seem to indicate otherwise," she added, stroking him through the fabric.

Oliver's hips jerked toward her hand, and he let out a low groan, but he pushed her hand away and got to his feet. "Look, it's not that I'm not grateful, but I just can't, okay?"

Pansy glared up at him, pushing herself to her feet and crossing her arms over her chest. "Then you bloody well owe me an explanation," she demanded, stepping toward him.

Backing away from her, his hands held up in a defensive gesture, Oliver looked around. "Where are we, anyway? That was a portkey, right?"

"You're stalling, Wood," she growled. Anger helped her hide the fact that she was trying desperately not to panic, because her carefully crafted plan was coming apart at the seams _again_. "I want answers, and I want them now."

"Seems to me it wasn't a legal portkey, either," he continued, as if he hadn't heard her. He was looking around the room, and she knew he was looking for exits, but unless he used magic he wasn't going to find any, and she was prepared if he drew his wand on her. The house belonged to Draco, a vacation cottage that had been in his family for centuries, and he'd been the one to set the wards up to her specifications, then procured the portkey to transport the user directly to the bedroom. "I could file a complaint, have you arrested for kidnapping."

The last threads of Pansy's patience snapped, and she backed him up to the wall, her arms uncrossing so that she could set both hands on his chest. "You could, but first you'd have to get away from me, and I can assure you I've planned this very thoroughly." She could feel his heart still beating wildly beneath her palm, and her other hand drifted lower, feeling the way his muscles reacted beneath his shirt.

"It's a bit of a long story," Wood said, still looking around wildly as if searching for an escape.

Pansy's hand drifted lower, stroking him through his trousers again, and was gratified to see his attention return to her. She gave him a wicked smile, purring, "I've got time. Start talking."

"Okay!" Oliver's voice cracked, and he reached for her hands, moving her back so that he could get away from her. He was stronger than he looked, and while she wouldn't ordinarily allow herself to be manhandled so easily, it was rather attractive when he did it. "Just... please, don't do that. It won't end well, I promise you." He took a deep breath, and another look around the room, and finally said, "I can't have sex."

She stared at him, wondering if she'd heard him correctly. "You're having me on."

Oliver shook his head, backing away from her and into the bed, falling backwards onto it with a surprised yelp. "I wish I was, but I'm not."

"But _why_?" she pressed, moving toward him. He moved away until his back was up against the headboard, and she realized he was being serious. "You've all the parts, I know that much already, and they seem to be in working order, as far as I can tell."

He laughed, nervously, and shook his head. "It's a curse." When she stared at him again, he patted the empty space beside him and sighed. "I mean, my family's cursed. Great-Granddad was a bit of a tosser, thought he'd play the field a bit before settling down, you know?" She nodded, perching on the side of the bed and kicking her shoes off without taking her eyes off his face. "Broke a lot of hearts, he did, and you know what they say about a woman scorned, right? Turns out he'd been telling these witches all kinds of lies about how they were the one and he'd marry them, all that rubbish." He snorted, and Pansy slid backwards until she was sitting next to him, though she left a good six inches between them so that she wouldn't be tempted to interrupt his story. "The last one, he wooed her with flowers and kisses and promises until she gave in, then was gone the next morning when the paper arrived. That morning was the day the announcement was printed in the paper, of his engagement to another witch."

Pansy winced. "Ouch. She must have been furious."

"Too right. Got together with a few of the other witches he'd done the same thing to, seven of them altogether, enough for a ritual." Pansy held her breath. Ritual magic was rare enough, and rituals with multiple participants were even more rare, because all of those involved had to be completely in agreement about what they were doing. It was dangerous magic, but incredibly powerful when done properly. "Are you familiar with fidelity charms?"

"Usually part of the standard wizarding marriage oath, aren't they? Especially among the old pureblood families, I know the Malfoys have their own variation on it." She remembered discussing it with Draco once, after they'd decided they weren't really meant for each other.

"You're friends with the Malfoys?" He blinked at her, and she belatedly remembered she'd never gotten around to introducing herself.

She held out a hand. "Pansy Parkinson. I've known Draco Malfoy for ages. About the ritual?"

He shook her hand firmly, and she was almost disappointed when he let go. "Sorry. It was based on the standard fidelity charm, but one of the witches was a Seer, and another was an Unspeakable who'd done some work studying Fate, and the witch who'd gotten them together decided it wasn't enough to just punish the man who'd hurt them all, so she made sure it would pass to his descendants." He closed his eyes, sighed, and then opened them again, looking down at her. "They made it so that my Great-Granddad, and his sons, and his sons' sons, et cetera, could only have sex with the person they're meant to be with."

It took her a moment to shake herself out of the stupor induced by the intensity of his gaze, combined with the sexiness of his voice. "So you've never had sex?" It didn't seem possible that the man could still be a virgin, there was something wrong with that idea.

"Never," he confirmed, looking rueful. "Wasn't for lack of trying, either. Thought I was going out of my bloody mind when everything was going wrong with Katie. Then Alicia. My dad sat me down for a talk and explained, and I thought he was barking mad at first, but then the coincidences just started getting weirder."

"So... what happens when you try?" Pansy was intrigued, and not just because of the story.

Oliver managed a faint smile, and she could swear she felt her heart stop. "Something... happens. It's never the same thing, which is why I thought Dad was having me on, at first. My last girlfriend, she had one of those canopy things on her bed, and the candle fell over and set the curtains on fire. Ruddy shame, too, her dad had fits when he saw us together."

"How long ago was this?" She wanted to touch him, to do something to make him smile again, so she reached for his hand, running her fingers over the back of it before turning it over to trace the lines on his palm.

"Must be seven or eight years, now, I guess." Oliver sighed, but he wasn't pulling his hand away, which was good.

"Now you _are_ having me on, surely. You're saying you've not been with a woman in seven or eight _years_?" She couldn't conceive of going seven or eight _days_ without sex, never mind _years_.

"Don't think it hasn't been difficult, but it's not been as bad as most people would think. Mind you, it's one of the reasons I spend so much time playing Quidditch." His smile came back, more genuine this time, and she dared to inch closer. "Witches might as well be Snitches, as far as I'm concerned. I've about as much chance of success with either."

"How far can you go?" she asked, after a moment spent trying to figure out precisely how to phrase the question. He blinked at her and tried to pull his hand back, and she held on, persistent. "How far, Oliver? You've obviously got _some_ experience in this area, after all."

"Pansy, I don't think it's really appropriate to--"

Before he could finish the sentence, she launched herself at him, letting go of his hand to thread both of hers in his hair, straddling his lap as she pressed her lips to his. Maybe it was a mistake, but then this whole bet had been a mistake from the beginning, so one more couldn't possibly count against her. At first, he was unresponsive, beneath her, and she thought she'd misread his earlier cues, and then his lips moved, his hands catching her hips as he let out a low moan, and she knew she hadn't been wrong. He wanted her.

"How far?" she panted breathlessly, against his mouth, her hands sliding through his hair before dropping to tug at his shirt, desperate to feel the skin beneath.

He moaned again, his hands finding their way beneath her blouse, fingers rough with calluses from his beloved sport. "Far enough to know this is a bad idea," he replied, kissing her again. His tongue slid into her mouth, and Pansy's eyes closed, her fingers exploring the muscles of his chest, convinced that Oliver Wood was hands-down the best kisser she'd ever met, which was saying something.

When he finally broke the kiss, they both gasped for air as though they'd been drowning, and Pansy certainly _felt_ like she was drowning. "Please, Ollie," she managed to get out. It was no longer about the bet, or her pride, or anything other than filling her senses with him, as much as she could.

She lost track of time for a while after that. Clothes were hastily shed, and there was some tearing of fabric and popping of buttons that they were both past caring about, though she thought she heard him murmur an apology as he snapped the threads on her bra a little too hastily. Hands and mouths explored newly bared skin, and a small, rational corner of Pansy's mind wondered at the sudden need she was feeling, then was promptly told to shut up while instinct took over. She could find nothing at all wrong with his body, which was in better shape than she'd expected, even for an athlete.

When she kissed and nibbled and suckled on one of his nipples, then the other, he arched and moaned beneath her, his hands sliding over her chest and eliciting moans when his fingers teased the peaks of her breasts. She slid lower, and his hands caressed her shoulders, then curled in her hair when she took him into her mouth. There was too much of him to satisfy with just her mouth, even for a witch of Pansy's talent, and she set up a rhythm with her mouth and hands that started slow but got faster as she felt him getting close. He tried to lift her head, to pull her away, but she resisted, and he shouted her name as he came in her mouth. She felt a warm, hazy pleasure as she swallowed, her hand still moving slowly to draw out as much of him as she could, and then she lifted her head and smiled down at him, licking her lips. "Still think it was a bad idea?"

He reached down to take hold of her shoulders, and Pansy watched with some fascination the way the muscles in his chest moved as he hauled her upwards. Then he pulled her down for a kiss, and she stopped thinking altogether, her eyes closing as his mouth assaulted hers. She was dimly aware of him rolling her over, but gravity had lost its meaning, along with everything else that wasn't Oliver. His hands moved down her shoulders, stroking her arms, and his mouth left hers to explore the line of her jaw, then her neck, proving that she'd been right when she'd said he had experience. He took his time, kissing and licking and nipping his way down her throat, his hands finding hers and moving them upward, holding them to the bed next to her shoulders as his head dipped lower, his teeth exploring the line of her collarbone. It was maddening, torturous, and she loved every second of it, couldn't get enough of him, her body shifting restlessly beneath him as she whimpered helplessly; she felt as though she'd been set on fire, burning from the inside out with liquid heat running through her veins and pooling in her center. When his head finally moved lower, his tongue grazing the skin above the curve of her breast, she nearly screamed, and when his mouth finally latched onto her nipple, she _did_ scream, her back arching.

She could feel his lips curve in a smile, against her breast, his fingers twining with hers even though his hands still held her in place, and then coherent thought deserted her again as his mouth went to work on her breast. It was unlike her to surrender so completely to anyone, and yet he had her entirely at his mercy and she wasn't even putting up a fight. After an eternity of exquisite torment to her chest, his head finally began to move lower still, and she could hear the ragged sound of her own breathing, the rapid and erratic pace of her heart. His hands let go of hers, sliding down her arms and then over her chest, fingers tweaking the still-sensitive peaks of her nipples before flattening out to pass over her stomach, finally curling around her hips. He said something, but she couldn't quite make it out with the pounding of her heart so loud in her ears; she opened her eyes to look down at him and was amazed that the heat of his gaze didn't set the very air aflame. Gone was the shy, clumsy, nervous and uncertain man she'd absconded with, and in his place was a man who looked very sure of himself indeed.

His thumbs traced the line of her pelvic bone, and he bent to kiss her navel, his tongue swirling for a moment and drawing another whimper from her. Then he slid lower, nipping her inner thigh before trailing kisses down her leg to the knee and sending little jolts of pleasure running through her, though she thought she might go well and truly mad if he teased her for much longer. He turned his head, planting a kiss to the opposite knee and making his way back up, and Pansy bit her lower lip in anticipation, hard enough to draw blood. When his hands left her hips, she whimpered again until she realized they were moving inward and down, then his fingers brushed against her and she moaned, her back arching. It was as if she'd never truly been touched by a man before, the way she was responding to him, but she didn't have time to think about her reaction because his head lowered once more and his tongue dragged against her, sending sparks shooting across her vision as a wave of pleasure rippled through her. Her eyes closed, her hands clawing the sheets and then lowering to find purchase in his hair, her hips bucking wildly until his hands moved back to hold her in place, pinning her to the bed as he had earlier. She tried desperately to pull him closer, and he obliged by bringing a hand back down and sliding two fingers into her, but it wasn't enough, even when he added another finger and did things with his mouth that had her world tilting on its axis before falling off altogether; she needed more.

When the roaring in her ears from her second orgasm finally started to fade, Pansy opened her eyes to see him smiling ruefully up at her, his hands on either side of her hips. "This is why it was a bad idea," he whispered, the words sending shivers through her.

Pansy shook her head, reaching out with one hand to touch his face. "You're just going to give up?" she asked, wondering why she was so bothered by this.

"Pansy, I told you," he began, his voice hoarse, but she shook her head in denial.

"Try?" She had never begged for anything in her life, but she was begging now. "Please, Oliver? If it doesn't work, if something happens, I'll get it, but please, please, just try?" The rational voice in her head started to protest, and was immediately told to stuff it.

"Don't get your hopes up," he warned, moving up the bed and leaning down to kiss her soundly. "Brace yourself," he whispered, into her ear.

She held her breath, as she felt him positioning himself above her, and then he paused, waiting for... something. "Nothing's happening," she whispered, breathlessly, thinking foolishly that maybe he'd been wrong all along about the curse, because surely she couldn't be the one he was meant to be with, not when she wouldn't even be here if it hadn't been for some ridiculous bet that seemed so trivial and meaningless now.

His hips moved, and she cried out at the feel of him inside of her, barely registering the low moan he made against her ear. He stayed where he was for a moment, and she didn't know what he was waiting for, now, her hands scrabbling frantically at his hips in an effort to get him to move. "Sorry," he panted against her ear, his voice more hoarse than she'd heard it previously. "First time, you know."

Pansy wanted to tell him it was fine, she understood, but he needed to get on with it; as if he'd read her mind, Oliver started to move, slowly pulling out with a low groan and then thrusting forward again. Speech deserted her altogether, her hands roving over the muscles of his back, her hips lifting with every thrust, one leg wrapping around him and urging him deeper. There was no way either of them was going to last very long, not after their activities from earlier, but she didn't care because time had simply ceased to pass for her, all that mattered was Oliver and what he was doing to her. His thrusts became faster and harder, and her nails dug furrows in his back as her moans turned to cries, the fire burning hotter and hotter until she felt ready to explode. She came first, her eyes rolling back in her head as she bucked and writhed beneath him, and her release triggered his, a whole different kind of heat filling her before he collapsed atop her, just sideways enough to avoid squashing her. There was the slightest pressure in the air, a frisson of magical residue that felt significant somehow, and then she blacked out.

Time reasserted itself slowly. She was aware of him coiled around her, almost protectively, and while normally she'd protest such treatment she found that she didn't really mind it with him. Her mind flashed back to that magical pressure she'd felt before losing consciousness, and her chest tightened as she ran through the possibilities of what it could mean. Nothing good, she was sure.

Oliver's lips grazed her cheek, and Pansy's thoughts went hazy again. "Welcome back," he murmured, into her ear, his arms tightening around her. "If I'd known you were the one, I'd have let you kidnap me sooner."

She blinked a few times, then turned her head to look at him. "You saw me?"

"Aye," he replied, nodding his head. "Three months ago, when the button popped on your blouse. Was hard not to notice, everyone else was staring."

Her cleavage had made the tabloids, and she and Draco had laughed over it before she'd whined at him about her plan not working. "I've been trying for..." Her voice trailed off as a thought occurred, and she went cold all over. "What do you mean, I'm the one?"

"What do you think I mean?" Oliver propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at her, and the serious intensity of his gaze made her breath hitch. "I'm not saying we ought to rush into anything, but I wasn't putting you on about the curse, Pansy. Which means you're the one I'm meant to be with. You must have figured that out, yeah?"

Pansy wanted to protest, wanted to tell him that it didn't really mean anything, but the look in his eyes stopped her. "I suppose I did." She blew out a sigh, shaking her head. "I'm not sure I know what to think about it, though."

He froze, and she watched as the warmth fled from his eyes, then he pulled away from her, sliding out of bed. "All right."

She sat up and watched him, as he collected the various bits of discarded clothing, feeling a pang in her chest at the expression on his face. When she couldn't take it any longer, she slid out of bed, stalked over to him, and reached for his face with both hands, pressing herself up against him as she pulled him down for a kiss. His hands came up to cup her backside, pulling her closer, her body fitting neatly against his, and when the kiss broke she whispered breathlessly, "You need to stop giving up so easily. We're going to have to work on that."

"Habit," he murmured in reply, kissing along her cheek to her earlobe and then nibbling on it. "How much time have you got?"

Tilting her head slightly with a breathy moan to give him easier access to her neck, Pansy ran her hands down his back. "For you, Oliver, I've got all the time in the world."

**The End**


End file.
